


A Passing Glance

by allsovacant



Series: The Things We Never Did [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Car Accident, Flashback, Gen, Hurt, Implied Sherlock/Victor Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of rehabilitaion, Minor Character Death, Pain, Rape, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Underage Relationship, Underage use of drugs, Young Sherlock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-03 11:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14568414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: What would you do if you only have an hour left... to live?This was about the last hour of William Sherlock Scott Holmes.





	1. Almost

**Author's Note:**

> Please accompany Sherlock, if you can. Thank you very much.  
> 

Sherlock looked at his wristwatch and took note of the time. It's five fifty-five in the afternoon. The view of the busy streets from where he's standing by the window of St. Bart's, fresh from an afternoon rain is the same; Busy roads, commuters to and fro, cabbies stopping by and picking up passengers. 

_Dull._ He thought. 

How could the world remain so dull when he's about to end his life? Something exciting should happen. That's the least thing this world could offer to him before he ends his association with it—He chanced a glance at some alley and smiled—

 _Oh._ He smirks. 

_Now that's the familiar change._

A short haired and small built of a man is now crossing the intersection. Sherlock's mind couldn't help but to engage in deduction. 

_..About 5 ft 6 inches in height, late 20s, sandy blonde haired, Mm... Wears a light brown hoodie against the rain, over a pale blue shirt, compliments his eyes—_  
Sherlock deduced, his thoughts nonstop—

_Had been to Tesco, on his way to a night shift. Probably, as an intern— Medicine major—_

Lost in his own deductions, Sherlock barely prepared himself when the man suddenly looked up from rummaging at his mailman's—Sherlock's heartbeat caught up in his chest. The man is staring at him—No.. not at him—at one of the windows from the second floor of the building. Then he waved his hand, his blue eyes smiling made darker by the grey clouds. Sherlock almost waved back. But knowing the man couldn't possibly see him, the side of his lips just quirked into a small smile—and then the man went inside in a hurry as drops of rain started to pour again. Sherlock sighed. He then poised himself straightening his posture and looked at his watch. 

Five fifty-seven. It is time. 

He went down the stairs leading to the ground floor. 

What would you do if you only have an hour left... to live? He thought. 

Sherlock told his best friend Molly, that he's off to use the loo. What an ordinary lie—for someone like him whom everyone starting from his family, to the ever unbelievable inflating number of police officers at NSY considers him as a genius. Molly doesn't differ—the 'number 1 fan' as she claims to be. Whenever Sherlock slams deductions over the bullies from a nearby university to defend his bestfriend, he could feel Molly's infatuation for him. It was how then actually their friendship started though. Humiliating bullies who deserved it than they deserve schooling in a prestige education. Back to his reasoning, the loo—Well, he can't really tell Molly that he's off to end his life and that she shouldn't wait for her. And the fact that there's really a loo inside the basement, wouldn't contradict the truth. Just the 'Why I won't be able to come back now?'. He was about to round the corner when his gaze fell forward to the man about to walk to his path. It was the sandy haired fella earlier outside Bart's. Almost, but not quite close enough—he's able to glance at the name badge pinned on the white lab coat the man wears. 

**J. H. Watson**  
_(Surgery Intern)_

So he was right, an intern. Sherlock wondered if he could talk to him. It was a silly thought. But just by observing the man who's now chatting with some female nurses at the top of the stairs dividing the way to the basement and to the hospital's canteen exit— Sherlock thought he could be at ease if he tries to talk to the doctor. And it's there again, that unusual feeling he's having every time his gaze fell on the man. 

_The laugh-lines on his face are beautiful. And his blue eyes shine when he laughs. Oh and what a contagious laugh..._ He thought.  
_Too bad...  
Too bad.. I wouldn't be able to... _ Shaking his head he dismisses the last words of those lingering thoughts.

With a cheerful farewell the nurses and the doctor parted ways. The latter making his way to the canteen and the nurses up the stairs. Sherlock immediately ran towards the stairs leading to the basement. His coat seem to fly behind him. Although he was sure for a second that someone noticed him, he didn't look back. Afraid he might see those pure blue eyes. Afraid that those eyes might lure him back. Afraid that he'll curse the people that is making him do what he's about to do. No he won't look back. This is all he desires. He tiptoed silently towards the basement door and shut it lightly. 

And with the silence of his surroundings, he closed his eyes and opened the door from his mind palace that contains every single reason why William Sherlock Scott Holmes has to die, tonight.


	2. Cause and Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock was nine years old, it was also when he built his mind palace. A memory technique he read about that will help him organize his thoughts and every event in his life. He was nine, but he can deduce the simple matters that still appear complex and difficult to his family or to his playmates. But it's also the same reason why Sherlock built his mind palace and made the first room windowless and eigengrau. The Basement.

Sherlock loves to be at the basement of St. Bart's Hospital. He was seven when he first saw the place. Randomly sneaking into rooms while hiding from his mummy and Mycroft. Mycroft his older brother was eleven at the time. Their mum was a retired nurse. She often take them to the hospital to read books on children that were bedridden. The basement exists just as a stock room exists. Although, it doesn't contain any chemicals, to Sherlock's despair. For he's fond of chemistry. His father, a known chemist before he met their mother and retired, had a lot of books about it in their library. Sherlock has always been fascinated with numbers and formulas. _Cause and effect. _—Lots of things could be found in the basement though, old tables, old clothes, old whatever, the maintenance couldn't fit on their store room. But there was one thing that he loves the most. The old armchair. It was owned by the previous president of the hospital. It was still usable, still offers comfort—Specially to the likes of him. Just as the basement is a comfort to him.__

__So when Sherlock was nine years old, it was also when he built his mind palace. A memory technique he read about that will help him organize his thoughts and every event in his life. He was nine, but he can deduce the simple matters that still appear complex and difficult to his family or to his playmates. But it's also the same reason why Sherlock built his mind palace and made the first room windowless and eigengrau. _The Basement._ _ _

__He opened his eyes and checked for the time. It was six in the evening. Slowly, he walked and sat at the armchair closed his eyes, and lead himself down the stairs of his mind palace._ _

___The Basement_ was dark. As usual. But it was that darkness, the room calmly offers to him that made him feel safe. The room was bare unlike the basement of Bart's. Bare until he walked to the center of the room. There he finds a closet. Taller than him. It doesn't contain any clothes though. He carefully opened the first locked drawer of the closet and freed its contents._ _

___**How could you not know?** _ _ _

__The question that was asked to Sherlock with anguish and contempt that made his mind palace almost crumble. That voice is still booming after all these years. The question his father asked him when his loving mother hanged herself in the huge branch of the pine tree of what should be a beautiful afternoon with her and with tea and biscuits. How could he? Because Sherlock was with her. How could he have missed the signs? Smiles that didn't reached up her mother's eyes—sudden loss of appetite—sleepless nights—blank stares—His father was wrong. He DID noticed. It's just that he thought isn't it the role of husbands to take care of their family? Of his own wife? And because Sherlock is still a child, he wanted to ask his father, so a week after the funeral, he did—but it came out in a loud voice that he didn't planned. Shouting and screaming and physical contact from both sides— That made Sherlock chuck another memory on the first room of his mind palace._ _

__**_Catalogue: Father_ ** _ _

___—A slap that made contact with the soft skin of Sherlock's cheek_  
—His hair, his mother loved his ruffled hair and he giggled every time she combed it with her fingers. But this man, dragged him by it and slumped him in an armchair. They're in the living room. His fist in contact with his soft abdomen  
—the word useless, another slap  
—And Sherlock shouting, _'It's your fault!_ , a small punch in his father's stomach— _'You didn't care about us!'_ ,  
—another punch that never made contact, and Sherlock enraged to his deductions— _'You have a woman, younger than you, in her early twenties, the reason why after mum was buried you never came home— Is this how you honor her memory?! Is this the reason why mum is considering divorce? You think i—I wouldn't notice?? Well guess what—I DID!'_

__Sherlock stood calmly in front of his father, whom, now has fear in his eyes._ _

_'You're the one who never cared! You never cared about her!'_ —His father now in tears, clutched on his own chest— _'You never cared that mummy had a miscarriage—Do you even know that?'_ —His father's eyes went wide, his mouth closes and open, trying to say something, but remained quiet— _'You never cared that mother cried herself in her sleep because you're not there! When you should be comforting her—But no. NO, Because you're with—_

Sherlock broke in a sudden stop when his father started to crumble. When his father knelt—both hands clutching hard in his own robe—the look of pain and regret and anguish in his face—then his father is squirming on their red carpet—Sherlock knows he have to do something—But he's feeling... overwhelmed and exhausted and his voice couldn't find it's way to his mouth—Then the silence was broken with his Father's pained words, _'Forgive me, William. I'm so sorry... Wilhelmina d-didn't tell me.. I—I should have.. I c-could have.. S-Son..'_ — And Sherlock remained standing as the silence was broken with a sob. And the one last sigh of breath. 

___Time: 18:10_ _ _

__###_ _

__Sherlock staggered when he stood and made a quick stride to the adjacent corner of the hospital's basement. He took out a key to his pocket and opened the little shelf above his head. He took out two black sando bags and locked the little door again. He laid them on the space beside the sink. He fished out a pen and a piece of paper from his coat pocket, scribbled his last note on the paper and slumped on the armchair. He laid the written note carefully on the armrest of the chair and stared at it. Time to open the rest of the drawers and delve into the emotions that he refused to feel until this, one last time._ _

___Time: 18:12_ _ _


	3. A Treasured Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock watched as the events of his teenage life unfold in front of him.

Sherlock opened the remaining drawers of the closet one by one. He decided to view the memories as they happened—Him watching and reliving them one by one. The contents swirled in the air and once again the views changed. 

****Catalogue: Redbeard** **

Sherlock watched at his ten years old self, stood, staring down at the unmoving entity at his feet. His dog, Redbeard—It lay curled like a ball, its jaw an expression of pain and struggle. Eyes shut firmed, It's tongue touching the newly trimmed bed of grasses of their lawn. 

Sherlock sees his brother walk behind the younger him, hands resting on his shoulder—"I'm so sorry, brother mine." Mycroft said. Squeezing his younger self's shoulder.  
"The sickness spread quickly, the vets couldn't do anything."

—young Sherlock regarded his brother with a hum, "It doesn't matter Mycroft. All lives end—Like our parents, like Redbeard—And there will come a time yours too—" He paused and looked up at his brother, his green-gray eyes meeting the brown ones, "As well as mine."

Sherlock returned his gaze at his dog feeling Mycroft squeeze his shoulders reassuringly again. Just like Mycroft always does when he cries—and indeed, tears fell from his eyes. 

Sherlock turned away from the corpse of his dog—the ghost of his brother and his younger self and once again he's back in front of the tall closet. He closes the drawer and leans to look on the next one. 

****Catalogue: Victor Aidan Carlton Trevor** **

The scene shifted to when he was twelve years old—He willed himself to be on that exact moment. It was a lovely sunny afternoon. He was now at a school library—Seated at a chair, when somebody laid a book on the table in front of him followed by a cheerful voice. 

_"Hello, I'm Victor Aidan Trevor. I see you love Chemistry. A bit difficult for you don't you think?"_ He heard the boy said. 

Young Sherlock didn't answer nor look up. He continued what he was reading to the last page, thinking, the boy would leave him alone eventually.  
Unfortunately, he was wrong. He was about to stand when he heard the voice again—more hurried to speak this time. 

_"I love Chemistry too. And I believe its much interesting than having a conversation with me but—I swear I'm not boring. And I really think you'll find this book interesting."_

The younger Sherlock huffed and finally looked up at the boy talking to him—He was welcomed by a brown eyed, hazelnut haired, with a warm smile face nudging a book at his hands. He blinked and frowned at the boy smiling at him.  
_"No, you're not."_ He said while looking down at the book, the one called Victor was giving him. _Relativistic Quantum Chemistry_ —  
_"You're not probably boring at all."_  
His gaze went back to Victor, now sitting at a chair opposite him, with a small smile, he offered his hand. _"The name is Sherlock Holmes—And it. The book is... Interesting."_

And he was rewarded by another warm smile as Victor took his hand. 

Sherlock watched as the events of his teenage life unfold in front of him. As it turned into visiting museums with Victor holding his hand, walking in the park and having their own private conversations in his room. Of longing looks and simple brushes of Victor's fingers on his, smiling softly. A soft kiss on his cheek—A treasured memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is harder than I thought..


	4. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is neatly planned.

Sherlock opened his eyes, struggling to see beyond his surroundings illuminated by the passing light coming from the obscured windows of the basement. 

He checked the time. It's 18:20. 

He sat up straight running both hands on his face, and ruffled his curls. Finally he stood up and walked to the sink. He flipped a small switch above his head and the sink is now illuminated by a little white bulb above him. He opened the sando bags containing the lighter, some scratch papers and arranged the blocks of coal in the other side of the sink. 

Everything is neatly planned. 

Sherlock spent the week mentally preparing himself for what he's about to do. And then the place, securing smoke alarms and the automatic water sprinkler that would trigger a red alert if the smoke produced by the burning coal reaches the ceiling. 

He's oh so ready. 

No one even questioned him or what he'll do, down the basement room. Even the maintenance staffs of the hospital didn't questioned him when he asked for a spare key. He wondered for a minute how his death will affect them. Well, if he succeeds on taking his own life, the reason would be irrelevant. He wouldn't be there to witness the aftermath anyway.

 _Maybe none._ He thought.  
He's changed a lot. He can tell. No longer that child who shows much affection or emotions—to those who comes and goes in his life.

After all, he's just another teenager with parents that were so recognized and looked up to, when they were alive, while he, he is often forgotten. 

He don't matter. 

It was always about... Them. 

Even when their marriage was crumbling it was always about them. He wanted to lash out at how this could happen to his adolescent life. But he couldn't. He kept it inside until his father's death because suddenly he couldn't take it anymore.

Being silent.  
Blaming himself. 

All of it happened because he's not paying attention to the signs. There is always something. And he failed to see that. Even Mycroft who have cemented himself to a pedestal on the eyes of their parents would just stay calm and collected. Telling him, 'Caring is not advantage.' 

Not that Sherlock hates his brother. He just hated the fact that Mycroft seem to gain control of his own life before—that Sherlock thought his brother had everything under control even after both of their parents passed away. And that Mycroft seemed to have the habit of extending that control over his life.  
_'Do this, don’t do that—‘, ‘Listen for once, brother mine.’_

The good son, and aiming to be the best brother—but it's choking him. And he's so tired of it, Sherlock thought. 

With a heavy sigh he went back to what he's doing. 

###

Sherlock arranged the scratch paper under the blocks of charcoal with a shaking hand. He fished out a little spray bottle that contains an exact amount of kerosene that will help him accomplish his final plan. He sprayed it on the charcoal and again and again and again. Until the bottle couldn't produce even a mist. Until he noticed the charcoals had darkened in contact with the liquid. Satisfied, he looked around the windows that he locked tightly the day before, and to the single door that separated him from the living world. Not that it would open. Sherlock made sure that in that hour and that room is clear of visits from staffs. 

He's going to do it.  
Finally.  
He's REALLY going to do it.  
He took the lighter and flicked the little circular gear in motion. A little glow of bluish, yellowish flame flickered before his eyes. Sherlock stared at the flame as if in a trance while his other hand picked up some more pieces of sheets of scratch papers and engulfed then with flame. He placed the papers over, under, and through the little spaces, and to the surface of the charcoal and watched as they crumble into ashes. He waited as the first sound of a crackle reached his ear—indicating that his lifeline will soon come to an end—the charcoal started to emit the smoke that he needed. 

**Carbon Monoxide poisoning** , also known as ‘the suicide gas’. His knowledge of how the chemical element affects the human body especially the respiratory system are enough to initiate his final plan. He knew that it's one of the major causes of death by suicide and accidental death in Asia, according to a survey. He's not that really interested when it comes to suicide. Nothing to look for, just basic evidences. He rarely stayed up late when making reports at New Scotland Yard when it is about suicide. Detective Inspector Lestrade, a police officer, that he always forgets the name, had grown fond of him, he can tell. The one with the greying hair, always seeks his help in secret. The one who always question his way of solving cases but always remains in awe of how his mind works. Sherlock still remembers the first case he handled with the DI, he was fifteen then—about a murder and a green ladder. He was grateful—for a while. The cases did something to distract him. Distract him from the recent events in his life. He felt more 'alive' back then. But the inevitable remains inevitable. Thus, here he is. 

The basement will be filled by smoke in no longer than fifteen. Fastest way to be a victim, in the records of Carbon Monoxide poisoning. With the amount of charcoal, compressed to one another, it will continue on burning. He'll succumbed to the effects in less than fifteen to twenty minutes. And he knows it will cause so much pain.

Sherlock glanced at his wristwatch. It is now six—thirty in the evening. Somehow he felt the time of his last moments are flowing slowly around the room. 

He, then, walked back behind the armchair and moved it by the table. He took off his coat, folded it and placed it there, realizing his scarf is missing. Both are gifts from his late mother. 

Sherlock looked solemnly at his coat, and gave it a one last touch, feeling the fabric beneath his fingers. One of the two things that gave him comfort. He’ll definitely miss it. He thought, as wisps of smoke reached his nose.

After a sentimental moment, he slumped on the armchair again, resting his arms on each side of it as he inhaled the smell of the swirling smoke. He fought the urge to cover his nose as it get stronger and made him cough continuously.

But there are still two memories left, fighting dizziness, Sherlock closed his eyes again and plunged into the deep waters of his mind palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might take a while to update the following chapters due an unstable source of internet connection. The last chapter will be split into to I dunno if I'll add some more of that. To be honest, nothing has been planned. Although, the thoughts never ceased to come by. As always, thank you for accompanying Sherlock at this moment..


	5. For the Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the living world on the other side of the door will just come to learn about him—and still, life goes on.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he found himself in a familiar place. An intersection in London. He's standing by the pedestrian lane as a gust of wind almost knocked him down—  
Sherlock coughed as he felt his chest constrain. His mind drifting off and on to his mind palace and the realisation of his chest heaving, and his heavy breathing— a blur of images of the charcoal continuously burning on the sink and him slipping off the old armchair and vomiting on the floor. His eyelids fluttering as his back hits the solid floor and all of a sudden Sherlock finds himself as the fourteen year old—him; thin, pale skinned, ruffled curly hair, eyes a balance of green and gray in color, seated at the passenger's seat with Victor, driving his father's car, looking handsome under the night sky—Speeding their way through the roads in London with recklessness. The day was his birthday, Sherlock felt his heart swell with something he couldn't explain and his breath became ragged when Victor leaned in and stole a kiss from his lips. And he pressed himself closer to the boy and deepened the kiss, making Victor swerved the wheel to their right—they laughed but it died out as a lorry with its blinding headlights came crashing towards their car.

**Catalogue: Happy Birthday, Sherlock**

The noises are unbearable—the doctors shouting instructions to the nurses, and the nurses frantically following them. Sherlock is wearing his light blue shirt with dried blood in it and the leather jacket Victor had let him borrowed that evening was nowhere to be found. His forehead was wrapped in some bandage, so as his left shoulder and his wrists and legs. The green light above the emergency room meant it was occupied. He felt a light touch on his good shoulder and he glanced up at a nurse with a sorrowful look in her eyes. The nurse took Sherlock’s left palm slowly, laid a velvet box with a card in it. She squeezed his shoulder lightly and turned away.  
Everything went slowly—Sherlock opened the box—on the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft running towards him, it seemed odd, Mycroft running, with his building weight—But Sherlock could care less—the ER’s door opening—He looked up towards the door—Mycroft talking to the surgeon—the surgeon shaking his head slowly—Both looking at him now—He opened the little velvet box and found a silver violin keychain—He unfolded the card and found Victor’s scrawny letter, _“To my future violinist, whom brought music into my life. Happy Birthday, Sherlock— Yours, Victor”._

Sherlock closed his eyes as he let his tears fall silently. He gripped hard on the object at his hand when a voice startled him off of his emotions—  
_“C’mon William, you wouldn’t want to cry your heart out right now. You should try it before I changed my mind.”_  
—Sherlock looked up the boy with a jet black hair and a sinister smile, grinning down at him. He blinked at him and looked around feeling helpless.

_This was…_

The worst memory he had stored in his mind palace. Piled and locked under everything. It was a year after Victor died—when he turned fifteen. 

He looked down at his hand and found a small syringe with its silver needle glinting. A small amount of drug snaking itself inside. He scrambled to his feet and ran off further into his mind palace. He found himself inside the library where he and Victor first met. Sherlock felt his throat and his chest tighten as he coughed one after another—

 _“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,”_ a new voice called—  
_“I knew it. Mr. Moriarty was telling the truth. He said I’d find you here today with your… little gift. I should greet you a happy birthday of course,”_  
The owner of the voice moved out of the shadow behind the shelves and walked towards Sherlock,  
_"And we could celebrate."_

It was a professor in History that had been throwing him odd looks ever since the school year started. Sherlock knew of course, as he deduced it. The professor was a pervert, and he knew some other students get off with him just to pass their subjects. He favors seniors, but for some reason, he had his eyes on Sherlock back then. And as what had happened before, Sherlock watched his fifteen year old self be devoured by the monster he failed to subdue with the little strength he had.  
He was taken by that monster further inside that room and he felt helpless— He tried to push him away but it was no use—He felt as helpless as every other person who suffered abuse. He was stripped off slowly. Caressed and worshiped by big slender hands, and all he could do was cry silently. He was touched in every part an intimate lover would have done and he just felt so tired to protest. His lips were devoured with passion he couldn’t reciprocate. He felt pain, in his body, his insides—anguish, over the man, the world, himself. He limped as the man above him pleasured himself on his body, now covered with visible dark and purple bruises—the last thing Sherlock knew, he was being stabbed by the syringe as everything around him faded to black.

###

Sherlock squirmed on the floor. He felt his eyes watered too much. He felt as though every organ inside his body wanted to get out of his mouth. He tried to focus on his breathing but fails—Of course, he’s inhaling more smoke now. The basement seems to be a blur in his eyes. He crawled and tried to hold onto the chair but his hand slipped off the edge. He squirmed some more as his breathing caught inside his chest. His lungs felt so tired. He felt so tired. He tried again to focus his eyes, glancing at the wall clock just above one of the windows. He almost forgot there’s a clock in there and it says its ten minutes until seven. He wondered what Molly was doing now—is she searching for him? Is she worried? Suddenly, Sherlock felt stupid of what he’s doing. Killing himself—that was so two years ago. He died already when he lost himself to a man he never knew but as a man who’s supposed to teach him about History, instead he ruined Sherlock’s own history that he could’ve left behind when he died. Sherlock thought about his dog Redbeard, if he was there that day, could he have saved him from the heart attack, from the disease? Sherlock thought about his father. For some reason he had forgiven him. And for some reason he felt quite in peace. And then Sherlock thought about his mother. His beautiful and wonderful mother. He looked back at those times when she brought him a glass of milk and biscuits, and she would reward Sherlock with a kiss on her cheek and she would look at him and smile at him like she was the most precious thing in the world. Sherlock thought about Mycroft, how his brother laid a hand on his shoulder when Redbeard died, the solemn look on his face. When he cried silently over Victor’s death—Mycroft was there to console him. As he was held by him when he was found in the library, naked, seated on the floor with his back on the wall—staring blankly with tear-streaked face, the lower part of his body dried with blood, as he felt his body shook silently for Mycroft cried with him—and somehow he felt he wasn’t alone. He had Mycroft as he held him on the hospital when he cried over the drug tests and the numbing pain of antibiotics running through his blood from those syringes—as he was put into rehab for six months—He wanted then for the world to stop revolving. He wanted what was happening now.

###

Sherlock coughed once more and to his unfocused eyes he found his hands covered in blood. His throat was probably having some internal bleeding right now or it could be because of his lungs being forced to breathe. His breathing uneven and its getting even more difficult for his heart to pumped blood if there isn’t much enough oxygen around. He doesn’t have much time left. Sherlock thought. He twisted, squirmed some even more until he’s able to lie unto his back and waited for the final moment. His eyes started to drift to a close when he heard a voice called his name—

“William,” The voice calling his name was warm, just like the sunlight as he remembers it. Suddenly, Sherlock was lying on the floor of their dining room of their manor. He got up and looked around but the house seemed normal and no other people was in it.

 _Of course, it’s my mind palace. It’s only me this time._ Sherlock thought.

“William,” the voice again called. It was when Sherlock turned around to the glass door leading towards the garden that he finally saw who the owner of the voice was.  
“Mummy.” He called back.  
His mother smiled, “Thought I’ve lost you already there for a moment, honey.”  
Sherlock swallowed in pain before he replied, “I lost you already.”  
Again, his mother smiled, “You never did. I am always here.” She gestured to Sherlock’s mind palace and suddenly she was in front of him and pointing at his chest, over his heart, “And here...”  
“I’m sorry.” He said with his voice breaking.  
“I’m sorry for not being able to save you, Mummy.”  
“I wouldn’t have let you see me do it.” She said while raising her hands through Sherlock’s curls and tucked them behind his ear. “But it has to be done.”  
Before Sherlock could reply she beat him into it, “And I wouldn’t have allowed _this_ to happen if I am still with you.” She swallowed and tears fell from her eyes. “I’m so sorry Sherlock, I¬-I’m so sorry for all of your pain.”

Sherlock extended his arms around his mother and hugged her tightly as he sobbed over her shoulders. They stayed like that for a while and finally, she squeezed his back as he heard her murmur something—“There is something I wanted to show you.”

Sherlock let his mother led his hand to the stairs leading to the second floor and into a room with a polished door. He gasped as he remembered to whom the door belonged to. He felt his heart slammed unto his chest and he fell to his knees. His mother squeezed his hand she’s still holding to making him look up to her.  
“You might want to see _him_ … Before we go, for the last time."  
Sherlock let go of her hand and walked towards the door. He nodded at his mother and she turned the knob, and the door opened— Sherlock was welcomed by the presence of a man he regret not knowing even more. The man with a deep set of blue eyes and sandy-haired hair, smiled at him, emitting warmth from that small form of a man of his. And Sherlock fell down to his knees and sobbed like he had never done before.

**Time: 19:00**

###

 _Sherlock was seated at the table in their lawn when her mother came with a tea and some biscuits._  
She smiled at him as Sherlock stood up to get the tea from her and poured her a cup.  
”So, tell me about him and how did you meet?” Her mother said.  
“He was just there,” Sherlock said, as he put the cup in front of her mother—“At Bart’s one day, with his mailman’s bag that screams United Kingdom. Like he’s gone from the army. But as I observed he’s just twenty? Probably twenty-one.” His mother smiled at his overflowing deductions. “And we haven’t really met.” He added.  
“Oh, Sherlock—“  
“Well— Okay. But that’s not the first time.” He said, earning him a small laugh from her mother.  
“I saw him on my way to the tube, and he was walking just around the corner  
I got out of the cab—“

It was a pleasant, sunny day, in his mind palace. Just him and his mother having a conversation over tea and biscuits, of past and present— and of past again. Somehow there were happy memories that he tucked away in his mind palace, reliving them over and over with his mother. And Sherlock knew he will remain in the past just like his memories.  
The basement remained dark aside from the sink on the further corner with chunks of ashes and some burned coal in it. Wisps of smokes still arised from it. The sink was only illuminated by a small bulb just below the shelf above—and the light— the light illuminates the form of a seventeen year old boy on the floor, cold and still, while the living world on the other side of the door will just come to learn about him—and still, life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I now conclude this part of the series.  
> I often wonder, how do authors write painful stories as if it was THAT easy. But now, with me, writing this, I learned that it was never easy. Especially when some of it you experienced yourself. About me though, I had my own share of painful memories which I used and I dived into those memories to be able to write this. That being said, thank you very much again, for being here with me and Sherlock. 
> 
> Life doesn't really end when we die.  
> Our life continues when the people we had encountered in our lives, remembers us.  
> In that way, we never die.


End file.
